The Phantom, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: And now for something completely different! My friends L'Arcange and FortunesFavour have collaborated on this lovely little spinoff from my story. If you want to know what REALLY happened to Erik in that closet between chapters 104 and 105, read this.


**A quick note from BHC****:** I can't claim to have written this little gem. This started as a little joke between L'Arcange and me after she sent me a review for chapter 104 that said "And suddenly, when Erik took another step back, he found himself in the land of Narnia!" At first I thought she was suggesting that the story had gotten too wildly fantastic. Then I got it: Erik was standing in a _closet_. I wrote back saying that I'm not much of a humor writer, but if I was I would have replied with a spinoff chapter called The Phantom, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Then it sort of occurred to me that FortunesFavour, the author of _Diary of a Mad Vicomte_ might have some ideas. Before I knew it, L'Arcange and FortunesFavour were collaborating on this unusual piece and offered to allow ME to post it so that _Therapeutic_ readers would be able to find it easily. To be perfectly honest, I have to admit I didn't write more than fifteen words of this. I _did_, however, laugh myself to sleep last night. So, here's a note from your real authors and then... well... Something _completely_ different.

**Author's Note from L'Arcange and FortunesFavour****:** This piece is a humor fic based on chapters 104 and 105 of BleedingHeartConservative's _Therapeutic_. In these chapters, Erik enters a closet to listen in on a conversation and avoid detection. "PWW" can be read on its own, but we would suggest reading _Therapeutic_ to know what inspired it! The parts in brackets are copied directly from _Therapeutic_ Enjoy!

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_**Previously, in another fan fic:**_

_She was not sure why she felt suddenly compelled to admit it, having lied to Wilhelm about other things, but before she could think it through she heard herself say aloud "I would marry him in an instant, Wilhelm, if he asked." Her resolve had returned. She clearly __meant that._

_Behind the wall Erik's eyes were wide. His heart pounded and his stomach heaved. He crawled across the floor. Best to get out of this room as quickly as possible, he considered, as though it was presently vacant, it was not entirely unoccupied. There were suitcases and toiletries. A moment ago he'd have had no qualms about his ability to slip out undetected even once it was occupied again, but feeling this way, he could not be as certain. He dragged himself to the door._

_"And yet he doesn't ask, does he?" No, he __hadn't asked. He hadn't even __considered asking. He'd given up the hope of __that_ long ago. But she said... she had said... Could she have really _meant that? He glanced back at the wall as though he expected he could see her expression through the wall._

_"What do you want me to say, Wilhelm?"_

_"Nothing. You've said quiet enough already." And with that he stormed out slamming her door. It was but an instant before Erik realized his mistake. He slipped into the tiny closet as the door to his room slammed open and then closed again. He was in Wilhelm's closet, and Wilhelm had just returned._

_Standing in the dark, Erik considered his choices. He could stand here indefinitely and wait for the man to fall asleep, trusting his ability to disappear into shadow in case the man happened to open the closet door. Or he could burst from the closet and face the man who dared to call him freak to the woman he loved. Here his thoughts tripped over one another and tumbled to a halt. He loved her? Could it be true? It didn't feel at all like before and yet—what else could it be? Why, then, he could throw open the door to the closet and announce that he loved her, that she loved him back and that she had just proclaimed aloud that she would marry him. __That, however, would be truly foolish. He would certainly __not do __that._

_He could strangle the man in an instant and simply walk out the door unconcerned. Yes, he was physically capable of that, but perhaps somewhere along the way he had lost that part of himself who was emotionally able to manage it. It had been... well, since Comte Philippe that he had not even attempted anything of the sort. That left a direct confrontation out of the equation. He waited in silence. An idea would surely come to him. In the meantime, silence was the best defense. There were a number of sharp bangs moving away from the door, then back and away again. With his eyes closed in the darkness of the closet Erik could gauge the man's distance from him by sound and visualize where in the room he was standing. He was beside the closet, near the door, and then at last, fate was merciful, for he slammed out the door once again._

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_**Ch. 1: Coming Out of the Closet**_

Recognizing his cue to reemerge, Erik eagerly made a movement to reach ahead and open the closet door, but, quite oddly, something physically held him back. It seemed as though his heel must have caught the edge of his cloak. However, he immediately deemed this rationale quite unlikely as the fabric was not quite long enough for that to happen.

True, Erik liked the look of long cloaks, but he was all too familiar with the dangers of excessively long materials. There was that horribly unpleasant incident five years ago when the edge of his cape grazed a floodlight when he was inspecting the stage late one evening after the opening night of _Die Fledermaus_. Never before had he realized just how flammable capes could be! He was quite ashamed at how he flailed about in a manner most unbefitting an Opera Ghost. Erik could not imagine any man of dignity carrying on as he had in that moment. And then there was that burnt smell for days to follow. No one at the opera could do a thing about it except blame the terrible odor on the Opera Ghost. Naturally. Oh well. He cared not to think on that. It reminded him too much of his hands.

Erik lifted his feet to be absolutely sure that he had not trapped himself. It did not seem to help. First his torture chamber, now this. Really, chlorodyne or no chlorodyne, Erik was becoming quite a danger to himself. He could imagine Elizabeth's reaction: "I just convinced Erik not to poison himself only to have him succumb to a tragic cape accident." If what she'd just said a moment ago in that argument were true, she'd be devastated.

Having confirmed that his feet were in no way responsible for immobilizing his cape and thereby obstructing his exit, Erik made another move to leave the closet. However, as he did, the clasp at his neck still pressed uncomfortably against his throat as before. Sticking his fingers beneath the clasp, Erik rubbed his Adam's apple and began to realize that his situation defied any sense of logic. On what could his cape possibly be stuck? Or was it his cape at all?

He soon came to a realization. It certainly was not the cape. All those atrocities he committed! All the blood on his hands! All the reasons he was unworthy of that unnamed emotion he swore he had seen in Elizabeth's eyes. Someone (perhaps a grieving relative of someone who had died at his bony hands in one of his mindless, violent acts—perhaps even the Vicomte himself!) had finally come to give him a taste of his own medicine. Yes, he was being Punjabbed. All those years of perfecting his lassoing techniques only to forget the first cardinal rule – when in a dark room, no matter how small, always keep a hand at the level of your eyes!

At this very thought, a rather harsh tug upon his cloak caused him to lose his balance, and he felt himself falling backwards. Expecting merely to hit the back of the closet and, at the very worst, have a hanger shoved up something rather painful, Erik was quite surprised when he kept falling until, in a manner most unlike his characteristic elegance, he found himself land arse-first in a pile of something cold, crunchy . . . and wet!

Snow!

"That's odd," he mused aloud. Yes, _odd_. Clothes would be as he suspected. Snow seemed a bit out of place. He was beginning to like this Wilhelm fellow less and less. Erik dryly began to contemplate that if he had not been in the midst of somewhere completely unknown, he would have been ready to storm off and rant to Elizabeth about the hotel management regarding the huge pile of snow dumped most inconveniently in a second floor closet.

Like his usual methodical and overly-analytical self, Erik immediately tried to rationalize the situation. However, the only thing he managed to follow was that one minute ago, he was in the dark enclosure of a small closet, squeezing himself in a corner . . . and now . . . Now he stared ahead to see nothing but snow and a vast expanse of evergreen trees. Craning his head to look up, Erik observed a great night sky speckled with stars arranged to form strange constellations he was struggling to identify. Really, where was the closet now?

Perhaps, he was experiencing a form of euphoria caused by Elizabeth's sudden confession? After all, she had just admitted that she would marry him if only he would ask! Was this a side effect of _requited_ love? Previously, he had only known the misery of the opposite. True, Erik had _observed _people in love. Did they not often speak of seeing "fireworks?" Still, what he observed overhead were certainly stars, not fireworks. Erik had always considered himself to be balancing on the border between sanity and madness; he was entirely willing to accept the fact that finally-requited love may have driven him over the edge.

Just then, he heard a faint crunch of snow behind him. Jumping to his feet in his usual manner of self-defense, Erik spun around rapidly, his cloak swirling out behind him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" a shaky little voice said.

Upon turning, Erik observed an even wider expanse of the same, strange forest. Seeing nothing near his eye-level except a solemn lamppost shining brilliantly in the evening snow, Erik looked down. His eyes followed what appeared to be a trail of _hoof prints_ that had gone around the lamppost and then back to its host whose hooves shifted about nervously in the snow. Erik followed the line of the goat legs upward. The legs were not attached to an adorable goat head with two cute little horns. Rather, they were attached to the body of a man . . . who incidentally _did_ have two cute little horns on the top of his head. As if that was not peculiar enough, the goat-man wore something that resembled a scarf. The creature's expression was eclipsed by the shadows as his back was to the light.

Yes, he had slipped into that void of insanity – that had to be it!

Erik was in a daze as he stared at the small goat-like silhouette before him and heard a rather concerned voice say, "Oh dear, I had no idea that the cloak was attached to anyone!"

Really, Erik would have been irritated and offended, if he had not been so nonplussed by the sight. This was just getting better and better. He was now officially scared for his own already questionable grip on reality.

In a final, desperate attempt, Erik squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them as wide as humanly possible. No, he definitely was not asleep.

Perhaps…perhaps he had somehow lost consciousness in that closet from lack of air…? The wetness of his clothes was understandable – once again he had been caught in the rain on the way to see Elizabeth. Yes, it was summer in Paris, and _it was raining_. That was why his clothes were wet. There was no snow.

So at this point, even though Erik had come to the conclusion that this was all in his mind, he still resisted the urge to immediately blurt out, "What are you?!" as he was far too conscious of what it was like to be referred to as a non-person . . . as an "it."

"After all, if this man were real, the poor soul would have more problems than I do," Erik thought with a wry smile.

"Are you all right, sir?" the goat-man managed to ask after the lengthy silence. "I hope I did not injure you!"

"I suppose I am fine, although I am not quite certain about where I am," Erik responded in English, as that was apparently the language goat-people spoke.

"You are in Narnia."

Narnia … Narnia? Narnia! What a strange name! Erik could not help but be amazed at what a great imagination he had. Of all the places he had been in his numerous travels, he had never been _there _. . .

The small figure began taking a few steps back into the light, and Erik could now clearly make out its furry little body. It truly stunned him that his mind could conjure up such a place as Narnia and such a creature that resembled a satyr . . . with a scarf. In a most casual way that amused even _himself_, Erik continued to converse freely.

"Is that in Wales?" Erik wondered if he should fear for his life. Even in this dream-realm, he really hoped he was nowhere near Cardiff, all figments of imagination considered.

"Uh, no…Though I am not quite sure what _Wales _is. Perhaps we are near there?"

No, actually, Erik was thinking, he was still in that closet, having passed out due to lack of air, with his cloak wrapped awkwardly around him.

"Oh. And you are?" Erik was not quite sure when he had ever been so conversational. The goat-man seemed to bring it out in him. What was the harm? After all, this was in his head, was it not?

"I am Mr. Tumnus."

This whole thing still struck Erik as quite odd, and he was still quite perturbed. He was making the effort to be friendly with this man-beast who wore no clothing except a scarf – rather unnecessary considering the lack of trousers – and the little trouser-less man had the nerve as to be so formal as to demand being referred to as _Mister_. What was this saying about him and his strange mind?

"I am Mr. . . . Erik," he replied angrily.

_Mr. Erik? Ha!_

The strange half-goat, half-man had gotten him so flustered he could not even remember his own last name. He was sure he had one at one point. If only he had that envelope with the deed Elizabeth had had drawn up for the opera house! It was certain to be in there...

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Erik."

Before Erik could consider a reply to that, the conversation was interrupted by an enormous, thunderous sneeze, apparently having come from Erik himself. Now, this particularly thunderous sneeze bent him nearly in half at the waist and sent his delicate black silk mask flapping in the breeze. Though this little piece of fabric was far more comfortable than the masks that fit close to his skin, it—combined with that whole business of lacking a nose—proved rather inconvenient at this moment. As Erik sneezed, the mask turned into a hanky of sorts, as sneezing without a nose can prove rather . . . messy. Why couldn't he dream himself into a tropical, summer local like normal people? He was masochistic even in his dreams. What was the ultimate torture for a noseless person? Why, dreaming oneself into a winter wonderland, of course! However, as he had survived years of nightmares far worse than this, Erik felt he could endure this minor dream-humiliation. Grabbing a true handkerchief from his trouser pocket, Erik carefully slipped a hand beneath the mask and carefully wiped away the "messiness" from between his face and mask.

"From what I felt by your cloak, sir, you are wet. I think it would be wise to get inside," Mr. Tumnus said as he began to guide Erik away from their place by the lamppost.

Dumbstruck by all that had happened, Erik was too numb to object and proceeded to follow the little goat-man. Perhaps, this would be a good idea. After all, the back of the closet was nowhere in sight, he realized as he glanced over his shoulder. Sooner or later, he would wake up in the closet anyway. And, hopefully, Wilhelm would not return before then.

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**:BHC, laughing hysterically yet again:** So? Comments for the authors? I know they'll appreciate it!


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